


The Eagle

by paradisefallen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradisefallen/pseuds/paradisefallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germania falls, though he is greeted by an old friend at the end of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't even know. I wrote this a while ago and I guess I should finally put this up for people to read. Feel free to give critiques or anything. Maybe I'll actually get around to finishing my Rome and Germania story. But this is the last part of that ginormous story.  
> It takes place in 553/4. The year isn't very clear on that. So have fun and let me know what you think, por favor.

 

His children would hate him. That Germania knew. He knew it  so very well. Dawn had not yet arrived and he stood at the door of his home in  Italy for the final time. His children were still asleep in their bed, holding onto each other for warmth, the  youngest one splayed across the others as if they were all his own pillows. How was he supposed to tell them that he was going off to die? He had given them all hugs and kisses the night before, not telling them that it would be the last time he would ever hold them. The last time he would ever kiss them and banish away the nightmares that the dark brought.  He dared not to tell them anything of what was to await them when they awoke the next morning . It broke his heart, but he knew it was for the best. 

Teuton would follow. He would try to come along, he always tried to join in and fight along side. His time for war would come, sooner than expected. On the edge of the bed, he had left a small sword, the hilt beautifully carved and set with a bright ruby from the Roman treasury. It was for Teuton,  to use in defense of his brothers . Alongside was a note explaining to the children that they were now on their own, and that Gilbert was to take care of them, and to keep them safe. Germania had trained him for this day, praying it would never come, but the Byzantine had forced him to do this. Forced him to leave his children. 

With a heavy heart, he forced himself to turn away from the things he held most precious in the world and leave for battle. Germania left the strongest horse with the children so they could use  it to escape the area when they awoke. Take the paths north, back to the forests of their childhood. They had spent the past few years in Italy, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, living in his villas, playing with his children, who Germania took care of to honor his friend’s dying wish. Now they would have to return to the north and carve out a new life without his guidance.

The horse  he picked for himself was old and slow, formerly a plow horse . A steed not worthy of a great empire like the brother of Rome, The Eastern Roman Empire. The horse would most likely be killed after his master was finished off. 

Mons Lactarius was just a few hours ride. It was where the final showdown would be. Germania felt tired under the weight of his armor. Ever since the death of Theoderic,  the last king of his people , he had felt the sting of mortality.  Germania’s people, his culture, they were all dead, replaced with new ideas, new people, they were no longer his. He was now victim to death. His children could see it, and they had worried for him. Hiding it was no longer an option. Their flight from Rome a few years earlier had nearly resulted in the death of him and his children. Byzantium was hell bent on avenging his brother’s death, on making sure Germania suffered. 

As the mountain loomed in the distance, he remembered his friend’s last words. Germania had begged him to stop the fighting, to lay down his arms and surrender. But the old man would not have it. The battlefield that day at Ravenna was slick with the blood of the fallen. The Romans stood no chance. And there he was, still shining as bright as ever in his golden armor. But his golden eyes told a different story. One of pain, and exhaustion. A story that now was told in the emerald eyes of the German. 

_ The Roman had walked up to his old friend, a smile on his face. Germania had put his sword aside, unable to strike that last blow.  _ _ That final blow. They were both panting with exhertion, their last battle together one to be sung for the ages. Both men fought valiantly, the cuts and bruises on their bodies telling the story. _

_ “Come on, Germania, I am tired. End it. You’ve been threatening it for years.  _ _ Make good on your promises like a real man _ _.” He couldn’t. No matter how hard Germania tried, he could not do it. Not to the one person that had cared so long for him.  _

_ "Stop asking for death. I will not bring it." He felt pity towards his friend, seeing him so old, suffering so much.  _

_ The Roman laughed. It echoed across the battlefield, the only sound among the dead, “We’ve passed the Rubicon, Germania. We know that there is no other way around this. My time has come. Let us be done with this argument.” _

_ Germania shook his head, standing his ground as the other approached him slowly. _

_ "Then let me ask for an embrace." There was a smile about him, washing away all the pain and heartache from the battle. _

_ And Germania trusted it like he had done so many times before. That smile could let down the guard of the very stoic, the very proud German for a brief moment, and that was all the time Rome needed. _

_ Before Germania could react, he felt a hand on his wrist, pointing his sword up.  _ _ Without any warning, that familiar sound that felt so sickening for the first time in his life, of slicing flesh. Warm arms embraced him one final time. _

_ "It’s alright. I want this. My time is done." The smile was still there though it was slowly being stained with red. _

_ Germania could feel the blood slide down hands, looking in horror at the point of his sword sticking out of Rome’s back.  _

_ “You idiot. You’re such an idiot.” He held onto the Roman, helping him down to the ground. Never once did his grip waver as he looked down upon his dying friend.  _ _ Where the Roman’s face had just been was now a blurry mess of brown and red. _ _ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”  _

_ The Roman laughed, coughing blood as he did so. “I forgive you. I always have. Now take care of my city and my boys.” He had seen the tears but knew so much better than to mention them. Knew better than to say anything about them. “Pity, I have to die while it’s raining. I’d much rather see the sun.”  _

_ The sun would not come out for Rome. Not that day. Germania cradled his head, pressing soft kisses to his forehead as the “rain” continued. For the first time since he had met him, he finally understood how much he had meant to him. “They say that the rain brings life.” But it wouldn’t.  _

_ A hand slowly reached up, shaking and unstable, and gently grabbed a few strands of that beautiful gold hair he had loved since the first time he had laid eyes on it. Still soft as ever. Memories of quiet rare moments together danced in Rome’s head as he felt the life slowly drain from him. At least, he could die the arms of good company. _

_ There was nothing the German could do but sit there and hold him. Had they been younger, had this been one of the wars they had fought so long ago, this would be nothing. They would be back on the field of war in no time. But there was no escaping this injury. As the minutes passed, the warm body grew slowly colder. Through his tears, Germania hummed a lullaby that he would sing to his children, to scare off the coming terrors of the night.  _

_ “The world grows dark,” Rome said softly, wheezing for each breath.  _

_ “The sun is setting in the west for the final time, and will not return,” Germania replied, reaching up to hold onto the hand in his hair.  _

_ The breathing of the dying man grew ragged. He opened his mouth, rattling, coughing, sputtering, gasping. Then nothing. The light was gone from the golden orbs. Death finally claimed its greatest prize that day. The one thing he had been lusting after since that day Romulus became something greater than himself. _

_ Germania returned to his camp, holding the body of the great empire against him. No man would touch it, no man would defile it. A pyre was built that night _ _ , and the  _ _ Roman was sent where no one could bring him harm again. _

The memories were still fresh in his mind. There had been so many deaths caused by his hands,  but never did one single death affected him thusly. 

The sounds at the mountain were gone. No life had bothered to stay there, not after the great battle that had been fought there the night before. His brothers had been fighting there, Goth and Visigoth. It was no longer his war, but Byzantium would not stop until the one who had killed Rome was dead. To protect his family, to protect their people, he had to die. He had no intention to fight. He had no reason to. He had brought this upon himself. It was his penance. 

As the horse climbed the slopes, he saw him. Byzantium. He looked just like his brother, but not as strong, not as courageous. More child-like. 

"I see you finally decided to come, Ostrogoth. Took long enough to find you." The Eastern Roman had that ugly smirk on his face. He was cocky. 

Germania dismounted, softly groaning as he felt his age bear upon him. He smacked at his horse’s thigh, making him run back down the slopes and away from the confrontation. He had no way to run from the battle now. 

“I do not wish to fight, Byzaz. Your brother’s city is returned to you, the king is dead. I just wish to watch my sons grow and be at their side.”

"Don’t you think my brother wanted that too? Are you really selfish enough to think that he didn’t want to be with his family? His sons? His brother?"

The German did not flinch at the words. He knew the true story, but others did not. There were no witnesses to Rome’s sacrifice. It was his word against a man who had lost a brother. If the fates had put them in  one another ’s positions, it would have been the same story. “I will not fight you.”

The other pulled out his sword, smiling as he did so. “Yes, you will. You will die, like my brother.”

Germania did the same with his sword but kept it at his side. “I said no, you arrogant prick.”

That was enough to provoke the younger nation. He charged forward and swiped at Germania’s face, but it was easily blocked away. With each charge, Germania would do nothing but block and anger the Easterner. But his joints ached, his body slow, and his parry was too slow. The tip of the sword slid through his old leather armor and into his shoulder. A cry of pain echoed across the hills and valleys below them. A gloved hand grabbed the blade and pulled it out and away. His blood trickled down his arm, warm. Just like that day in Ravenna.

Those thoughts stopped him from blocking. This time, Byzantium hacked at his leg, the sharp steel cutting through the armor easily. “Why won’t you fight back?!” he cried, stepping back an d thrusting again. 

Germania did not bring up his blade, rather letting the sword come straight at him without obstacles . The tip barely stopped at his neck. He would not fight, not any more.” Because I don’t deserve a warrior’s death. Because I am tired, and one day you will understand this feeling. I didn’t in Ravenna, but now I do. End it.” 

Byzantium looked confused. Why would he say something like that? Why would his enemy stop? Why? Like the child he was, still young and much to learn, he reacted as his emotions told him to do. One of his hands balled into a fist and sent it flying, making direct contact with the German’s cheek. His head flung to the side, but he did not move from his spot before him. Another punch came, and another, Byzantine releasing his anger out in the only way he knew how. 

Fighting back was not out of the question for Germania. The sun was up high, his children were most likely awake and already escaping the country. The more time he forced his opponent to waste, the greater the chance the children would be long past finding. It was only when enough was enough that he brought his sword up to fight again. The swipe nearly removed Byzantine’s left hand. 

Their swords met once again, the sheer ferocity echoing in the valley. Germania fought hard against his opponent, showing exactly why he had been so feared by the Roman Empire for centuries. Even with his injuries he fought long and hard, avoiding several strokes that would have ended the naive empire. He had come not to defend himself, not to strike down another empire.

His sword was the first to give out. As Byzantium brought down a powerful twohanded blow, the steel of Germania’s sword gave way and split near the hilt. He moved, but not before the sword bit into his arm. With hilt in hand, he stood before the other, his breath hard. It mirrored that day in Ravenna, when the tables had been turned. “Do it.”

Byzantium would oblige him. “I will make you suffer as my brother did, and worse.” One last thrust was all it took, straight through the man’s heart.

Germania gasped, or as best he could. He had felt it so many times, cold steel in his chest, but this time, it felt final. His legs were able to hold his weight, but the twist was enough to bring him to the ground. Pain shot through every part of him and he collapsed to his knees. The blade slipped out of him, covered in red. Red like the Roman’s cloak. Like the toga he had been wearing the first day they met. The world felt cold as he fell back, his eyes staring at the sky. 

There was a screech. A loud scream in the air. Slowly, or so it felt like, his eyes moved across the sky until he saw it. A golden eagle, flying high above him. That beautiful creature that the Roman had worshiped so much. A symbol his own children loved. It soared in the sky, circling around them, moving closer to the ground. Germania was too focused on it, too focused on the words on the wind to hear Byzantium’s rant about how he would find his children and make them suffer as well. That was if he could find them.

It was as if the bird was speaking to him. Whispering his name in that old familiar voice.

Rome.

"Time to come home, we’ve been waiting." 

He opened his mouth to answer, blood trickling down his lips and cheeks. 

But the eagle understood. 

The last thing the green eyes saw was the flash of steel and the pain was gone.

—-

Standing alone, dressed in his clothes, but white, he looked around the room. It was white. Everything was perfect, and white. It was new to him, yet it felt familiar. It felt like home. That was when he heard it.

"Took you long enough," the booming voice said.

Germania turned around to see another figure in pure white. A smile spread across his lips as he looked upon his old friend.

"I had to clean up your mess. You never learned how to clean up after yourself."

 


End file.
